C.Raymond

It�s late in the night and I�m still alive. I�m writing or trying to write then smoking a cigarette then pounding out a few more sentences then smoking another cigarette then writing then pacing the stained carpet with a Coors in hand, sipping it, then sitting it down and furiously clacking out another paragraph then I call a girl and get voice mail again and I leave a fevered message about nothing then I drop an ash on my keyboard and then I call the Saint and tell him to bring more Coors then it rolls around 11 o�clock and I give up on the Saint and his Coors and I lay in bed and talk to the ceiling fan hoping it�ll tell me everything is fine, that my life isn�t s**t and I really am a writer on a strange road then I call that girl again and curse her voice-mail then my brain explodes with raw passion and I write a couple hundred more words and finish off the last swallow of Old Crow on my mantle and go back to sipping on my last Coors. And I�m doing this all in the nude with the blinds shut tight and the Waylon Jennings turned low�